Well. I'm lying in bed in Dahlia Reserve. It's been eight long years since I've been here, although when the pool water first lapped around me a week ago, not only did it feel like it simply could not have been that long, but also like the misery was instantly washed off and the shit instantly cleaned from my head. I feel a tad unsure about using the word 'misery' as recently I have gained a new and fervent appreciation of all I've had and have in my life. But there's no denying that I have been miserable in the past, and at times suicidal. I say this now because I am reflecting on the past eight years so I intensely, and if this really is to be a new chapter, I have to know what precisely was in this chapter.
I've been reading John Irving and whilst I'm enjoying just reading again, the guy has such a way with words that I'm inclined to try to improve my own. What I like most though is his marriage of realism, poetry and humour. I feel like a pretentious prick when I try to write properly. I usually like to write about farts and beer. But there is one thing I know tonight. If I could combine those three things to form my attitude to life, I'd be well on my way.
I have toyed with the idea of writing everything I can muster about the last few years. I feel inspired but also duty bound. Not that anyone would care, but I know it would help me. At the very least, I should commit my 2012 memories to here before this year commits itself fully to nothing more than mere words. As Owen Meany would say, everything happens for a reason.
